


A New Beginning

by Trecriture



Series: Cloak and Dagger [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trecriture/pseuds/Trecriture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The tranquil beauty of the field is disturbed only by the slow, gentle movements of a lone cloaked figure, curling his fingers in a benediction of sorts over the tips of the waist-high grass whilst ambling slowly toward the three crosses set in the protective shade of the great châtaignier tree."</p><p>d'Artagnan returns to a special spot near his farm in Gascony. Set after 1.08 The Challenge. Mild spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Beginning

The tranquil beauty of the field is disturbed only by the slow, gentle movements of a lone cloaked figure, curling his fingers in a benediction of sorts over the tips of the waist-high grass whilst ambling slowly toward the three crosses set in the protective shade of the great  _châtaignier_ tree.

He pauses at the leftmost - and oldest - mound, his chocolate brown eyes briefly clouding over before he sighs and slowly takes a seat in front of it, as if he is a wizened grandfather and not a newly-commissioned Musketeer.

"Mother... long time no see," he begins, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Everything has been...  _frantic_... for a while now." Wearily, he rubs at his eyes- it's been a long journey from Paris back to the (now mostly burnt) farmlands where he grew up, though thankfully this field was one of the few to escape LaBarge's vandalism - before brightening and reaching behind his back for something. "I brought you these-" he produces a freshly-picked bouquet- " _des fleurs de frangipanier_ , your favorite."

A smile unwittingly tugs at the corners of his mouth as a childhood memory surfaces to the forefront of his thoughts. "I remember you always said: 'One is for beauty, two for grace... but _many_ signify a new beginning.'"

He takes a deep breath. "I know you never liked it when Father taught me to use the sword... and I apologize, for these past several months I have used it... quite frequently."  _Understatement of the year._  "But... the Musketeers..." he gestures helplessly. "They've given me a new home, fierce loyalty surpassing even that of our own people here in Gascony, friendships born in fire... and God help me-" he wipes a traitorous tear away from the corner of his eye- "but I do believe I've come to think of them as my elder brothers."

Only the constant chirping of the birds can be heard for the next several moments, during which the young man blinks furiously, marveling at how coming to this copse always seems to make him excessively maudlin. Once he regains his composure, he clears his throat several times before continuing.

"You'd love them. I know you would. Even though they, too, have chosen the way of the sword. I'd like to see Porthos meet you, actually," he says, grinning as his eyes take on a faraway look. "I can just imagine it: the mighty Musketeer, trembling like a mouse in the face of your fury after he inadvertently knocks over a platter of your  _foie gras_..." Making a big show of sniffing the air, he can almost smell the distinctive scent of the Gascon delicacy, and his mouth is already watering....

"Then Aramis, being the perfect gentleman that he is, would mollify you and Porthos, the dear fellow, would contritely do whatever work you needed help with around the kitchen until dinner was ready. As for Athos - well, he and Aramis would likely spend the rest of their time bantering back and forth about how quaint it was here in Gascony compared to Paris, and then comment that that must be why I turned out like this-" he grins remarkably good-naturedly- "and then I would help you set the table, all the while trying to get the first bite, with you waving your ladle at me in mock anger - d'you remember it, Mother?" His tone has turned wistful as a myriad of other happy memories come to mind. "How we all used to play with the flour and we would end up the whole family lobbing gobs of it at one another, pastries forgotten?"

Giving himself a little shake, he tries to get back on his previous train of thought. "Right, then once the table was set and I had finally succeeded at snatching a tart before anyone else, we'd all gather round the huge dining table, all the places filled for once, what with you and me, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos there, and Father too-"

He breaks off abruptly. The fairy tale vision of times long past and what could have been crashes to the ground in his mind, utterly destroyed.

_"For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."*_

Now, even the birds have fallen silent, as if sensing that the young man will not - cannot - face the truth with their cheerful song filling the air.

At long last, he speaks, voice husky with sorrow, regret, and a thousand other emotions he has neither the time nor the patience to decipher.

"I'm sorry, Mother. For everything."  _For not coming back here as often as I should (never mind that it's a week here and a week back), for not being able to help Father in those last few moments, for not being there to save the farm from that piece of vermin LaBarge, for not choosing the path you wanted me to, for fashioning that absolutely ridiculous fantasy that can never be-_ "but God willing, one day I  _will_ make you proud."  _Despite all of my mistakes, past, present, and future._

He slowly stands up, stoops to place the bouquet of plumeria flowers on the leftmost mound, directly at the foot of its cross, then straightens and moves on  to the one in the middle.

"Paul," he begins, voice cracking with a whirlwind of emotions suddenly swirling in his chest, then falters, head bowed. "Brother," he tries again, wishing he didn't always choke up when trying to say that certain one-syllable name. "Know that you will  _always_ have a place in my heart... but also that the hole made from your absence is gradually being filled by three other courageous, witty, great men. You don't have to continue worrying about me, so..." he kneels and gently pats the center mound. "Rest now, brother."

Getting to his feet, he closes his eyes briefly against a staggering moment of vertigo. A growing sense of dread has settled in the pit of his stomach by the time he approaches the rightmost cross, the most recent of the three by far.

"Father," he murmurs, stumbling and almost collapsing in front of the mound. He squeezes his eyes shut for several moments, then stiffly stands at attention, back rigid and expression solemn.

"In entering the service - no,  _brotherhood_ \- of the Musketeers, I pray that I will do our family name proud, and do my part in ensuring that what befell you never becomes the fate of another righteous man. I will struggle, I will fight, I will bleed, I will die- whatever is necessary to ensure your faith in me was not in vain, Father. You have my word, both as your eldest remaining heir, and as the newest member of the King's Musketeers."

After saluting the grave and its memories, he exacts a swift about-face and marches determinedly - but always slowly, gently, never harshly - away from the benevolent  _châtaignier_ tree, taking care to respect this beautiful field which has continually protected and, God willing, will _always_  house his three beloved deceased family members.

As he rises over the crest of the small hill and mounts his horse, he turns to look back over the entire awe-inspiring vista, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, and smiles.

Charles d'Artagnan, King's Musketeer.

A new beginning indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> *taken from Genesis 3:19, New King James Version  
> châtaignier = chestnut  
> des fleurs de frangipanier = plumeria flowers  
> foie gras = literally, 'fat liver'; a Gascon delicacy  
> I also took some artistic license with certain things; for instance, I'm not at all sure when the salute actually came about, let alone what it would have looked like in France in the 1630s. Also, I'm assuming his mother hasn't been around for some time, as d'Artagnan seems okay with her absence (and besides, if she'd been on the farm when LaBarge went on his rampage, wouldn't she have either died or somehow contacted him?)  
> However, other facts I did make sure to check, e.g. the actual d'Artagnan did have an elder brother who died. Also, the distance between Paris and Gascony is somewhere around 600-700 km; a horse's trot is around 13 km/hr; assuming d'Artagnan rode eight hours a day, with breaks at appropriate intervals, it would take him about a week to get there and another week to travel back to Paris. Would he have time for this? I'm not sure, but I assumed so, since I imagine Tréville has a heart and would let d'Art go back to check on the state of his only source of income post 1.08 The Challenge. :)  
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!


End file.
